“It’s not fair to her,” I argue, a sudden fierce protectiveness for the woman I don’t even know rising within me. “Ifeel guilty and I don’t even know your wife.” I don’t even know what I’m doing or why I’m saying this. I just want to know what he feels, I guess.
He pushes back from the car slightly, enough to break the intense physical contact, but not enough to release me from his gaze. “Then I’ll stop coming over if that’s how you feel.” The words are delivered without emotion, a simple statement of fact, but they hit me like a physical blow. The thought of him not coming to the cabin, not filling that space in my life with his presence, sends a cold dread through me.
My breath hitches. He sees the reaction in my eyes. His gaze softens, a fleeting moment of something akin to understanding, or perhaps pity. He leans in again, closer than before, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
“I’m a good husband outside of what she doesn’t know. But if you’re starting to question doing the things she doesn’t know we’re doing, then maybe we should stop doing those things.”
His hands, which have been bracing him while we speak, now move. Slow, deliberate. They slide from the hood of the car, over the thin material of my dress, and settle on my thighs. A jolt, electric and potent, shoots through me. My skin prickles under his touch. My breath starts to come in short, shallow gasps. His fingers move, a light, teasing caress, up my inner thighs. My body responds before my mind can even process it, a familiar warmth spreading through me, a primal ache.
“Would you like to stop doing these things my wife doesn’t know we do?”
His eyes, dark and heavy lidded, meet mine. I shake my head. “No. Not yet.” I can see the desire there, mirroring my own. The air between us thickens, charged with an undeniable tension. Our breathing grows heavier, ragged, almost synchronized.
“If you want to know the truth, I feel like a complete asshole,” he murmurs, his voice rough with suppressed emotion as he continues to caress me, moving up my thigh.
“Maybe you are,” I whisper back, my own voice hoarse, barely recognizable. The shame is still there, a dull throb, but it’s being eclipsed by a different, more urgent sensation.
“My wife deserves better,” he says, his voice a low thrum against my skin as his hands continue their slow, intoxicating dance on my thighs, moving higher.
“Petra deserves better,” I counter, the words surprising even me. A flicker of defiance, a quiet reclaiming of my own worth, even in this messy, complicated situation.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his lips. It’s not a happy smile, more of a weary acknowledgment. “Petra. You deservesomuch better.” His fingers slip inside my underwear, and then into me.
I gasp.
His other hand, strong and sure, spreads my legs wider on the hood of the car. My dress rides up, exposing my skin to the cool air, but I barely register it. My senses are consumed by him, by the intoxicating pull of his presence.
I gasp again, my back arching off the hood and into his hand. He leans down, his mouth finding mine, silencing any protest, any sound, with a deep, consuming kiss.
It’s raw, it’s urgent, it’s everything I shouldn’t want but crave with a desperate intensity. The fact that we’re outside on an open road, the shame of a potential approaching car, it all fades away, replaced by the sounds coming from me.
Saint watches me, exposed on the hood of my car, as I completely come apart in front of him. His eyes remain dark, but as I tremble against his hand, there’s a flicker of something new there. Something he only wishes he were pretending.
When my breathing slows, Saint pulls his hand away, never breaking eye contact with me.
My legs are aching and my body is still tingling. My mind is a whirlwind of emotions. Shame, desire, confusion, a surprising surge of defiance. “Where will you tell her you’ve been all night?” The question tumbles out, breathless, a desperate attempt to grasp at some tangible piece of his other life, to understand the woman who shares him.
He sighs, a deep, heavy sound. He pushes off the car, creating a small distance between us. “Stop asking questions about her. I don’t like thinking about her when I’m with you.”
“Do you like thinking about me when you’re with her?” I ask, my voice small, vulnerable.
He looks away, staring out into the middle distance, his jaw tight. “No. But I do it anyway. And it doesn’t feel good to feel good about someone who isn’t my wife.” His voice is flat, yet the words themselves carry a profound weight. He turns back to me, his gaze direct, unyielding. “Go back to the cabin, Petra. Don’t follow me. You won’t like what you find.”
Then, he turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back. He gets into his car, starts the engine, and drives off, leaving me alone, exposed on the hood of my car, the morning sun casting long, lonely shadows around me.
I do what he says. I go back to the cabin and I write.
Chapter Twelve
For two days, I wrote.
I didn’t hear from Saint at all after he left me at my car two days ago. No texts, no visits, no surprises. I was okay with it, though. I got so much written. I was still reeling from the fear of being tied up, and then I was still buzzing from the emptiness he left me with after what happened on my car.
I’ve barely eaten, I’ve been writing so much. I was so fired up by the way his hands had gripped my hips on that car, the way he was being such an asshole. I loved it. I loved feeling vulnerable.
That’s new to me, and I’m surprised by how much it turns me on.
I channel my energy into the manuscript, typing away on my keyboard at a speed I’m not accustomed to.
